


a place for crows to rest their feet

by explosiontimothy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC) Spoilers, Coda, Established Relationship, Lost Love, M/M, mentions of book events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24273571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosiontimothy/pseuds/explosiontimothy
Summary: Kiss me with rain on your eyelashes,come on, let us sway together,under the trees, and to hell with thunder.- Edwin Morgan, 'Kiss Me'A story about a witcher and a vampire finding their way back into each other's lives and arms and hearts.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 15
Kudos: 157





	a place for crows to rest their feet

**Hauteville  
** **Beuclair**

The Beast’s claws are fully extended. The monster lunges. Geralt turns and sees him coming. He’s too late. 

The Witcher has never really believed in the whole _life-flashing-before-your-eyes-before-you-die_ nonsense. Fuck that. As a craftsman of death and dying, he knows that death isn’t glorious or romantic, or whatever bullshit Dandelion might be peddling in his odes. Death is embarrassing and ugly. Death stinks - it makes you shit and piss yourself. You end up covered in your bodily fluids, sticky, mauled beyond belief, possibly missing a limb or so. Geralt is fine with this. He has always known that this was how he would end, one day - that he would find an opponent that’s just too quick, too strong, too fickle. A higher vampire had always been one of the most likely options, really. 

_Do witchers ever retire?_ he remembers Dandelion asking once. 

_Yeah. When they become slow and get killed._

Funny, that. Years ago, Geralt had said that no one could pay him enough money to go after one - and here he was, on a contract after what is, apparently, a higher vampire, to do the bidding of a naive duchess and her naive, beautiful land. If he wasn’t about to die, Geralt would have laughed at that, at the memory of that campfire, that summer, of -- 

He grits his teeth and lifts his sword. He’s too late. 

_Squelch_.

The unmistakable sound of flesh being pierced rattles through the air. Yet it’s not his flesh. 

Geralt’s heartbeat, albeit slow, is loud in his ears. There’s a man, who’s appeared out of nowhere and lunged between him and the Beast. The long claws that were coming from Geralt are protruding from his back. 

The Beast growls, says something Geralt doesn’t quite understand, and then --

“I know you’re in trouble. I can help.”

Something grips Geralt’s throat, chokes him, because that _voice_ , but he has no time to react, because --

“I’ll help _myself_.”

 _Squelch._ A hand emerges from the man’s back. Geralt winces, feels his insides twist painfully at the sight. 

And then, quiet, choked, barely louder than a breath, but to Geralt’s sensitive ears, as loud as a shout: “No. He’s my friend.”

A growl, a red-tinged wisp of smoke and the Beast is gone in the blink of an eye. Geralt’s hands slowly drop as he’s staring at the body in front of him, a body of a man standing despite all odds, the body of _this_ man that he _knows_ , the impaled, bleeding body, of --

He turns around with a smile and Geralt, suddenly, really wishes the claws had impaled him instead. He wishes it desperately, in fact.

“Yes, Geralt, it’s me.”

“Regis,” he breathes and it’s a name he hasn’t had to voice in so many years, it almost feels foreign in his mouth. “I --” Where to begin? What do you say? _I’m sorry. I can’t believe you’re alive. I missed you. I love you. I never stopped. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ Geralt clenches his teeth so hard his jaw almost cracks at the onslaught. “You alright?!” 

***

 **A forest near Malhoun, Maecht  
** **Six years earlier**

“Geralt,” Regis half-laughs half-whispers against Geralt’s lips. “Geralt, stop. I’m -- you were supposed to be taking the first watch.” 

“I couldn’t help myself,” Geralt growls, low and dangerous, right where something is stirring in his belly. His arm is wrapped around Regis’ waist as he pulls their bodies flush together and kisses him again. What Geralt absolutely adores is how the vampire feels deceptively _small_ , almost delicate in his hands and yet the knowledge of Regis’ hidden strength pulses from within his delicate frame. Geralt leans in to kiss his neck, just to _feel_ that. “You were looking so wonderful tonight, and look at that moon, waxing away shamelessly. It always brings a special gleam to your eye that I just can’t resist.”

Regis gives him a look of pretend admonishment but a smile dances on his lips. “I was just going to go harvest some fresh mandrake root. It is the prime season for it you know, and --”

“Mmm, right. Mandrake. You could do that. Or-- or you could stand here and let me kiss you some more.”

“Our humble company will certainly not be pleased if you deprive them of their well-earned hooch.” 

“Our humble company can, quite sincerely, hooch off. I’ve not had a moment alone with you since we left Toussaint.” 

Regis chuckles and shakes his head with that well-known expression of _I don’t like being interrupted._ Geralt hates it, so he kisses it right off the vampire’s face. 

He had been surprised at first, how easily they fell into each other’s arms and lips and hearts. Geralt wonders if it’s all down to Regis’ otherworldly allure, the sinister shine of his eyes, the little smirk at the corner of his mouth. Part of it, perhaps - and Geralt would never be caught dead with cliches such as _love at first sight_ , but he had been taken with this impossible creature the moment he’d laid eyes on him. 

From that evening in his modest hut near Fen Cairn, when, with Dandelion was drunkenly babbling and hanging off his shoulder, Geralt had found himself fixated on the trembling corners of Regis’ eyes and the way his hands flew around, gesticulating every word. From being on the road together, when he often watched the way Regis sat on his mule in that gracious, yet slightly uptight way about him. From that moonlit evening, when Regis had saved him and Geralt had realised what Regis was and it only made him want him _more_. 

Geralt had been watching Regis a lot back then, he now realises. An awful lot.

One late night, while taking one of his insomnia-induced midnight strolls, he’d happened upon the vampire in the forest. Regis’ elegant hand was reaching towards a tree branch where a crow was nestled, crooning softly. He was talking to the bird in a soft, chirping voice, in a language Geralt didn’t understand. Half of his face was bathed in moonlight and with the starry sky splayed behind him, he loomed large and spectacular, full of grace and untainted power. 

Regis had turned, then, and their eyes had met and Geralt had seen something he couldn’t quite place. Something inexplicable and as old as the universe itself. Regis had smiled, fond and affectionate, and Geralt knew then, with absolute certainty, that he could no longer ignore the fire burning deep within his gut. 

He’d crossed the distance between them in two large paces. Regis had met him halfway. They had crashed into each other like waves on a seafront and the blinking starlight was their only witness. 

Geralt holds Regis close now, feeling the warmth and scent of him envelop him. Regis sighs but it’s half-hearted and tinged with that weary, fond smile that he seems to belong to Geralt alone. They kiss again, and it’s soft and caring and loving and in a daze Geralt thinks, _I have no other home but this. And once this is all over, I will find a home for both of us, and for Ciri, oh Ciri would_ love _Regis, and there we can live and love and hide from the whole world and just be us._

Regis breaks away and laughs, his eyes bright. “I do not ever recall being happier than this, you know. You truly are a thing of endless wonder, my dear witcher.” 

They are a two day walk from Stygga castle. 

***

 **Hauteville  
** **Beuclair**

Contrary to all expectations, Regis is here and he’s alive, and the vampire that was seconds ago trying to skewer Geralt - whose name is Dettlaff, apparently - is the reason for Regis to be here and to be alive. This new information makes something red and angry pulse inside him, and he does not know whether it’s guilt ( _he was alive and I just left him there_ ) or anger ( _I am hired to kill the man who brought Regis back_ ).

Regis, for his part, also appears to be weighed down by this. There is tension in his shoulders as he speaks, and he regards Geralt closely, choosing every word with care. He’s changed, Geralt realises. Physically, but also on a deeper, more visceral level, Regis looks as if he’s carrying a bleeding, festering wound deep inside. Geralt hates that he still knows the vampire well enough to know this just from one look. 

As the Regis disintegrates into blue-tinged smoke and the knights barge through the door, loud, sweating and heavy-footed, Geralt can only stare at the tail-end of the wisp that drifts out of the open window. His heart is still beating slowly but is now lodged somewhere firmly around his gullet, it would seem.

He mutters something to the knights - about tracks, maybe, he’s not quite sure - and then rushes outside. _Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery_ , he remembers. _I need to get there. I need to talk to him, I need to tell him that --_

He’s just about to mount Roach but instead his legs take him to a back alley behind the barn seemingly on their own accord. Geralt leans against the wall and breathes, breathes, breathes. He curses his choking lungs and the grief that rises up in his veins. It burns powerful and raw like that day at Stygga Castle, like the fire that rushed from Vilgefortz’ hands, straight onto Regis’ skull.

The Witcher has spent years very deliberately not letting his thoughts wander into that particular minefield of memories. He has intentionally avoided any conversation about what happened at Stygga. At times, he wishes, desperately, that he could have kept at least _some_ of the Wild Hunt-induced amnesia. Just enough so he could not remember the hansa, who had fought so bravely and yet died so gruesomely, without Geralt even managing to say goodbye to them. Just so he couldn’t remember how much they’d hurt in their final hours, protecting him and a girl they had never met. Just so he wouldn’t have to remember it was all his fault, that if he hadn’t dragged them into this they would still be alive. 

Just so he wouldn’t have to have Regis’ dying screams, playing on a loop in his head.

But boy, does he remember. Does he remember every minute and every cadence and every single inch of Regis that he got to touch and hold and kiss and love. Even if the memory had started to fade with time, it’s now come crashing back with just a whiff of that oh-so-familiar scent. 

Geralt is well and truly fucked.

For a brief moment, he considers not going to the cemetery at all. He considers galloping far, far away from Beuclair, Anna Henrietta’s rage be damned, and never setting foot in Toussaint ever again. He considers never having to face Regis and acknowledging this gnawing in his gut that seems to be turning him on the inside out. 

_Aen hanse,_ a cheeky, self-important voice rings in his head. _An armed gang, but one linked by bonds of friendship. A company._

Geralt clenches his teeth and balls his hands into fists so hard his nails leave little crescent-moon shaped marks into his palms. Of course he’s not going to do that. All members of the hansa-that-once-was don’t just _leave_. They fight, and they do it until the bitter end. 

After another deep breath, Geralt jumps on Roach and digs his feet into her sides. She neighs and sets off, as fast as she can, towards Mère-Lachaiselongue. 

***

_“Do you believe every soul has a mate?”_

_“But we by a love so much refin’d, that our selves know not what it is, inter assured of the mind, care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, which are one, though I must go, endure not yet a breach, but an expansion.”_

_“So is that a yes?”_

_“Very much so, my dear witcher. I do believe that. And I also believe that you are mine.”_

***

 **Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery  
** **Caroberta Woods**

“Perhaps you’d care for a snifter of mandrake?”

The alcohol sloshes in the bottle that Regis holds out in Geralt’s general direction. The Witcher recognises it as the invitation that it is: _it’s time. It’s time to talk about everything that happened._ There’s a peculiar gleam in Regis’ eyes, illuminated by the soft fire that crackles near the gravestones. 

Geralt does want to take him up on it, he does. Until now, Regis has been annoyingly tight-lipped about the past, decidedly steering Geralt towards finding a means of discovering Dettlaff. He understands why that is and he understands that Regis is worried about his friend, his _blood brother_. It doesn’t mean that Geralt has to like being told what to do. 

Now, as he sees the vampire standing in the firelight, he once again feels that _fight or flight_ response rise up in his chest like an unwelcome tide. 

“No drinks for me,” he gruffs and settles himself against a gravestone. “Need a nap instead.”

If Regis is disappointed, he hides it well. “Unable to focus your thoughts at the moment? I understand. I, too, am anxious to know the news…” 

He trails off and looks into the woods then sits down on a gravestone near Geralt. He remains uncharacteristically quiet so Geralt closes his eyes for his ‘nap’.

Of course, witchers don’t really nap. Not quite. He is meditating and resting his mind, sure. His breathing is slower, his muscles are relaxed. But sleeping, he is not; constant vigilance, Vesemir always said, even in your sleep. His eyes are always half-open, most often to watch out for attacks, but now, through the veil of his own eyelashes, Geralt watches Regis, able to truly _see_ him again for the first time. 

The vampire looks … older than the last time Geralt last saw him. More weathered. He knows for a fact that it’s the effect of the incomplete regeneration - even if he wanted to, Regis is unable to physically age. But there are strands of silver in his hair that weren’t there before. If Geralt didn’t know better, he’d say Regis looks _brittle_. Maybe that’s still true, even if not on a physical level. There’s something about the vampire which feels emotionally fragile, like a dam waiting to burst. 

There’s a fire in Geralt’s bones that yearns to just reach over to Regis and hold him, feel how soft his skin is to touch and kiss again. He’s fixated on the vampire’s delicate, artisan wrists, deceptively thin, and thinks of how they contrast with the ferocity of the claws that extend from the end of his fingertips at will. 

This new Regis, this _older_ Regis, still carries this endlessly attractive, inexplicable power within him. If Geralt focuses, he can see it almost as a bright aura, buzzing around the vampire in an odd frequency, something that no other monster really has. _Of course it’s not. He’s not like any other monster. He’s an ancient powerful being, probably the most ancient and powerful being I’ll ever know._

This intoxicating power and the knowledge thereof pulls Geralt in. It grips like a vice wrapped around his body and his mind and his heart. 

A crow flutters nearby and lands on Regis’ knee, crooning softly. Geralt doesn’t stir but his sensitive hearing sharpens as he listens. Not that he understands much - Regis softly speaks to the crow in that odd language that he remembers hearing many years ago. It clicks and swivels in the vampire’s throat, yet there’s a deep growl seated somewhere in between Regis’ collarbone, too. For an intense, burning moment, Geralt is struck by the memory of having his ear pressed exactly against that spot of Regis’ body, of hearing the vampire’s voice vibrate and rush below him like a midwinter stream. 

Regis doesn’t move to wake him, so Geralt assumes the crow didn’t bring any important news. He’s just about to stop listening when he hears, ever so softly, just three words Regis says to the crow in Common: “Thank you, Milva.”

Something rattles loudly inside of Geralt’s ribcage, something raw and painful and sore. He turns on his side and wills his thoughts to enter the aether of meditation. 

***

 **Sansretour Valley  
** **Six years earlier**

Geralt knew from the get go that bringing _anyone_ along on a contract was a terrible idea. He always walks the Path alone. Not because of a code that may or may not exist but because of his personal conviction that no one he loves should be exposed to its dangers. 

He soon realises that when it comes to Regis, all his convictions seem to fly out the window at record speed. 

When the vampire had suggested it, Geralt tried yet couldn’t find it in himself to turn down the offer. Frankly, his soul had burst out into song at the prospect of the two of them alone, in the sprawling plains of Toussaint, free to kiss and explore their bodies in a way that travelling with the company would never allow them. All while leisurely making their way to the archespore-infested vineyard, where Geralt will undoubtedly end up covered in monster stomach acids in less than ten seconds.

 _Definitely the most romantic setting I could possibly imagine, cleaning archespore guts off your beloved_ , Regis had said with a smile and Geralt’s heart had warmed. Whether it was because of the sincere warmth in the vampire’s smile, or because Regis had referred to him as _beloved_ , Geralt didn’t quite know.

Yet now, as he watches a bandit press a serrated knife to Regis’ throat, Geralt remembers why the Path is always meant for the lone witcher.

Regis’ eyebrow is raised, questioning. He’s not said a word but Geralt can almost hear him shouting: _just attack them - you know they can’t hurt me, no matter how hard they try. Geralt, just do it. It doesn’t matter._

 _It matters to me, you dumb git,_ Geralt thinks as loudly as he can, hoping Regis can somehow hear him. It’s ridiculous, really, how easily Regis could slaughter these men in the blink of an eye. But they can’t risk it. Not so close to the village they’ve just left.

The vampire seems to understand. He smiles, tight-lipped.

“Drop your swords, witcher,” the bandit growls again. “Or your friend here will find himself missing one of his heads. If he’s lucky, it’ll be the one on top.”

Geralt looks around. There’s at least thirty of them, all armed to the teeth. They have five wolves with them. He starts thinking about the potions he has in his saddlebags, about the best ways in which he can dodge the arrows that he knows will certainly come from his left side, about how he can take on the men with the wolves - no, wargs, he now realises - before anyone else --

“Gentlemen,” Regis starts with his gentle, placating tone. “Surely this is a misunderstanding. Do let us go - we will give you what you want and we can all go about our business.” 

The knife presses closer to Regis’ throat. “Shut up, you annoying nonce.” The bandit bares his teeth, rotten to the core. “We know who you are, _Geralt of Rivia_ . We know the girl you seek. Now, if you know what’s good for you, you will come with us. We work for someone who would _very_ much like a word with you.”

Fire erupts in Geralt’s chest and he sees something change in Regis’ face as well. They don’t need to say another word to know what this means - they have been found out. They have dallied, stayed too long, placated by the wine and the sun and the beauty of the duchy. This is the unfortunate result. 

Geralt knows two things, now. One, the company needs to leave Toussaint - as quickly as their feet would carry them. Two, none of these men can be allowed to go back to their leader alive.

Regis meets his eyes and, almost imperceptibly, nods. 

Geralt extends his fingers in a _don’t attack_ gesture and puts his steel sword on the ground. “Alright. Alright. Let’s all calm down.”

Regis is still, his dark eyes fixed on Geralt. The bandit grunts. One of the wargs growls. 

Just as his sword touches the ground, Geralt looks up: “Regis, now.”

In a puff of smoke, the vampire is gone. A burst of fire explodes from Geralt’s fingertips. The leader of the bandits screams but he only has a second to think about his scolded face when Regis materialises next to him again.

“I would advise you not to threaten good folk with decapitation willy-nilly,” he admonishes as he quickly slices the man’s neck with Geralt's sihil. 

Someone screams. The wargs growl ferociously are let off their leads and two of them immediately pounce on Regis, who dodges it just about. 

“Freaks! Kill them!”

Geralt rolls away lands a blow on the bandit closest to him and pirouettes just in enough time to parry another blow coming from his right. His sword sings as it meets the crisp morning air. One bandit tries to get him from the back but Geralt flips his sword and skewers him without even looking. These men’s breathing is more distinctive than a hog’s. He rolls away from another blow, shoving his sword right into the next enemy’s knees. Regis has pushed the warg away and is now behind another bandit, quickly cutting his throat. He’s clearly careful of being seen, Geralt realises, as this would cause them more problems in the long-run - fortunately, despite all his disdain of swords and daggers of all sorts, the barber-surgeon is decent enough with one. Geralt hears a crossbow bolt fly past him and swears. He rolls away and parries the two others and looks around for the archer. 

“Geralt!” Regis shouts and Geralt turns but it’s too late. One of the wargs lunges at him and roughly shoves him onto the ground, its teeth just inches from Geralt’s face. 

“God, you stink,” the Witcher huffs as he grabs the hunting knife on his waist and plunges it right into the beast’s eyeball. The warg howls and collapses his entire weight on Geralt. Geralt huffs a breath and moves the corpse off him. 

Just as he manages to shove it off, he’s once again pinned down on the ground. Geralt bares his teeth and he’s ready to shove his hunting knife in his opponent’s neck but --

“Don’t move.” Regis’ voice is choked, as if he’s got something caught in his throat. “Stay here.” 

Geralt wants to ask what’s going on - until suddenly, in a moment of freezing terror, he understands. 

He goes to press his hand against Regis’ chest, to push him away. What his shaking palm meets is the peaks of four long black arrows, coated with blood and tissue and skin. 

Two more join them. Regis’ torso jolts in Geralt’s arms. A trickle of blood runs down from the corner of his mouth as he smiles weakly. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay, Geralt. I’ve got —“

Another arrow stops him mid sentence. Geralt’s vision goes white with rage as he shoves the vampire off and rolls in the opposite direction, his hand finding his sword. Three arrows land where he was just a second ago.

Regis remains on the ground, breathless with pain and coughing up blood. Geralt doesn’t fully remember what happens next. All he knows is that his sword sings and it meets body after body after body. He gives in to the anger and the protective animal that claws ferociously at his insides. 

***

 **Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery  
** **Caroberta Woods**

It takes some time for both of them to catch their breaths. The candles in the crypt crackle. For a while, it’s the only sound that fills the cavernous space. 

Geralt can still feel the bitter, unpleasant taste of Resonance in his mouth. It’s not as bad as some of the shit he imbibes on a regular basis, but it’s definitely up there in the top five potions he hopes he’ll never have to taste again.

However, the majority of the bad taste in his mouth is coming from the look on Regis’ face. Regis, who has put himself in harm’s way, through literal _torture_ , for Geralt’s sake. Again. 

He’s growing steadily sick of this now. Sick of the vampire dancing around him, careful and calculated, talking as if Geralt has not said _I love you_ and _I want to spend the rest of my life with you_ all those years ago. As if Regis can’t tell that Geralt also wants to say _I never stopped loving you_ and _Please forgive me._ Geralt is truly sick of Regis not saying a word about what Geralt needs to hear and then, in the same breath, once again proving that he would put himself through immense suffering without hesitation. 

The heaviness of everything they’re not saying is dragging them down and threatening to drown them. So, Geralt decides it must stop. 

He moves to sit next to Regis, who’s on his makeshift cot, head resting against the wall behind him. The vampire cracks open an eye.

“I thought you were going to speak to the bootblack.”

“I am,” Geralt gruffs. “Bootblack isn’t going anywhere. And I’m not going anywhere either, not until I know you’re okay.”

Regis gives a long-suffering sigh, as if he’s trying to patiently reason with a rather petulant child. “My dear friend, as I have already said, while your concern is touching, it is very much not needed. A higher vampire can recover from injury and physical strain with, really, no effort whatsoever. It truly makes no difference, in the grand scheme of things.”

Geralt doesn’t answer. Instead, he watches Regis’ fingers, crossed over his knee as he sits. They are long and elegant and beautiful as they’ve always been. It would be very easy for Geralt to reach over and hold them and kiss their fingertips, just as he did once. 

Instead, he summons the anger inside of him. “If you’re not going to be honest with me, I’m leaving here and never coming back.” Regis’ head snaps up at that. Geralt continues: “You know that I never would have agreed to take you to that place, much less to you putting yourself through -- through _that_ . I do not appreciate being lied to, _vampire_.” 

Regis’ eyes widen. “Geralt, like I said, it doesn’t ma--”

“Don’t,” Geralt growls and meets Regis’ stare. The vampire meets his eyes and his eyebrows furrow as he watches Geralt’s face, clearly able to see the static of tension and anger that Geralt can feel rippling through his skin. “Do _not_ say it doesn’t matter. It matters to me, you dickhead. How many times are you going to make me watch you get hurt because of me?” 

Regis looks as if he’s been slapped across the face. Tiredness has crept into his features, and the shadows on his face are deeper, threatening to almost swallow him whole. Geralt takes two _very_ slow and deep breaths. 

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he tries again, voice significantly softer. “Because I care about you. I care about you an awful lot. I always have… and I have never stopped .” 

Hee scoots until he’s sat shoulder to shoulder with Regis and lets his hand brush against the vampire’s. Regis flinches but doesn’t move away so Geralt keeps close. He is hyper aware of the parts of their bodies that are touching. Their shoulders, their elbows, the edge Geralt’s pinky to Regis’ palm. He notes how familiar this feels.

“Geralt.” Regis’ voice is quiet. “I would never assume that, after all these years, you still --”

“Assume it, Regis.” 

“Let me finish. I am under no illusion that your feelings for -- what we had together have remained unchanged.” He’s clearly picking his words very carefully. “It is the wonderful constancy of your friendship that I value, Geralt, and I always have. Please do not feel like you owe me anything because of-- it is fine if you have moved on.”

Geralt is torn. On the one hand, he’s furious at Regis’ tendency to overthink and overexplain _everything_ when Geralt thinks that he has, in quite simple terms, put his feelings to the vampire. On the other, he wants to gather up the stubborn vampire in his arms and kiss that stupid, self-loathing expression off his face. He wants to talk and talk and talk, he wants to tell Regis everything about his life in the last few years - God, he has _so_ much to catch him up on - and prove to him that he has very much _not_ moved on, that every relationship he’s had since has been nothing short of disastrous. 

But there’s something in the way Regis say _moved on_ that singes something inside of Geralt, something he doesn’t quite understand. Another question, uninvited, tumbles out of his mouth: “Have _you_ moved on?” 

Regis’ lips tighten in a thin line and he looks away. Geralt instantly remembers the way Dettlaff had looked at Regis, Regis’ hand on the back of Dettlaff’s neck, Regis’ voice saying _I can help_ , brimming with gentle, careful affection and care. Something inexplicably ugly coils in Geralt’s stomach.

“I --” Regis sighs. “Not now, Geralt.”

“Regis, answer me.”

“Now is not the time for this conversation.” Regis’ voice is gentle, yet firm. “Not when we are so close to Dettlaff. Please, Geralt. Let us finish what we have set out to do - and once we have, we will have all the time in the world to talk about everything and anything you want. I promise you that.”

Geralt hates promises like these. More often than not, they are not kept. Still, he nods and gets up, letting Regus stretch out over the cot bed. He stays until the vampire is asleep, watching the candlelight flicker across his tired face. 

***

_“Oh? Is that a promise?”_

_“Of course it is. I’m yours and you are mine, forever. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”_

_“Nor would I want to, beloved. I simply never thought witchers would be ones to settle down.”_

_“Maybe settling down is not about a place, it’s about a person.”_

_“I have to admit, you do make it sound rather appealing. As long as I get to do this with you every so often, then I am settled for the rest of my long, long existence.”_

_“That’s that, then. You and me, and Ciri, if she so wants. Once we find her.”_

_“We will, Geralt. Vilgefortz doesn’t know what’s coming to him.”_

_“Just make sure not to die, vampire.”_

_“Come on, Geralt. You know very well that I am practically indestructible.”_

***

 **Tesham Mutna ruins  
** **South of Francollarts**

Regis stands up and wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth. The being that was once Dettlaff van der Eretein is now no more. 

Geralt watches, numb. His hand twitches. He knows that the code requires he take a trophy for the contract issuer. Geralt could not find it in himself to care about some (mostly made up) code one bit. 

All he can do is watch the painful, stiff tension in Regis’ shoulders. He desperately wants to reach out and hold him, remove this hurt and anguish that is his doing more than anyone else’s. He doesn’t - whatever Regis needs now, it’s not his comfort. Instead, he just moves to stand next to the vampire and waits.

When Regis finally speaks, he sounds -- almost normal. “We need to set the remains alight. It is in line with our --”

“I know. Do you want to --” Geralt moves to stand next to Regis and look down at the corpse. “Would you like me to construct a pyre?”

With his peripheral vision, he can see the corner of the vampire’s mouth tremble, almost in a smile. “Does a witcher truly believe that a dark creature deserves a human funeral?”

“ _This_ witcher believes that one should do what one must to honour a fallen friend.” 

Something tightens in Regis’ face. “Very well. I will locate some firewood.” 

Without another word, the vampire vanishes in a cloud of mist. Geralt watches it scatter with the faintest whisper of something Geralt can’t quite catch. The sound carries on the wind and it sounds like whimper, heavy with sorrow and grief. The leaves rustle and suddenly everything is quiet and he is all alone with Dettlaff’s corpse. 

Geralt sits down and closes his eyes, evens out his breathing. He keeps a silent, patient watch. 

After a while, Regis returns, much in the same way that he left, with some dry firewood. It’s not long after that Geralt’s fingers form the sign of Igni and a blaze crackles, loud as a whip, in the night. It illuminates the ruins of Tesham Mutna in a deathly glow as the fortress observes the final moments of one of its sole keepers. 

Regis is still, unmoving. He seems fixated on the burning flesh but it also looks as if he can’t really see it. For perhaps the second time in the long years that Geralt has known him, he looks very, very far away, so far that he’s even beyond Geralt’s reach. 

Then, suddenly, he takes off one of his gloves and reaches into the open flame with his bare hand. Knowing better, Geralt doesn’t try to stop him. When his hand emerges he’s holding a small, moth-shaped brooch that Geralt remembers seeing on Dettlaff’s coat.

The sight of it seems to unhinge something cavernous and painful in Regis. The vampire drops to his knees in front of the fire, clutching the brooch close to his heart. His head is bowed, as if he’s weighed down by an invisible load on his shoulders. 

Geralt thinks and then, gingerly, places a hand on Regis’ shoulder. Regis doesn’t shrug away or otherwise react. His body trembles ever so slightly under Geralt’s fingers, as if he’s trying to stop himself from screaming, on and on and on. Geralt squeezes Regis’ shoulder, perhaps as a way to say that he doesn’t. 

They stay like this for a while, as the fire burns on and ash scatters among the stars of the Toussaint sky.

***

 **Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery  
** **Caroberta Woods**

“After all that toil, I believe we deserve a bit of a rest.”

“That we do.”

They’re silent for a good while after, only moving to refill their drinks. The crickets chirp around them, singing along to the crackling of the firewood and the twinkle of the stars above them. After some time, Regis stands and moves, sitting on the ground next to the rock Geralt has perched on. He leans his head back and sighs. 

Geralt knows the vampire’s not drunk. He is extremely well versed in Regis’ body language and it would take a lot more than the meagre amount of mandrake hooch to get Regis even tipsy. Instead, Geralt can see that weight he’d glimpsed at Dettlaff’s pyre - the sorrow, the pain, the guilt and now, after he has been clearly denounced from his own kin, the _fear_ \- coursing through him like a ripple. 

Maybe _Geralt_ is drunk, now. It doesn’t really matter, though.

He puts a gentle hand on Regis’ neck, tangling his fingers in his hair. Regis flinches but he doesn’t move away. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Regis says nothing. Geralt continues: “You said it yourself. He was beyond saving. You did what was right.”

“The proper definitions of right and wrong are, as you well know, disgustingly fleeting.”

Geralt moves to take the swords off his back and carefully puts them on the ground behind him. Then he sidles down until he’s sat next to Regis, shoulder-to-shoulder. Regis cracks open an eye to look at him - his obsidian eyes reflect the gleam of the fire. 

“I do not wish to discuss it, Geralt.”

“I wasn’t going to. I’m just sat here.” 

“So you are.” Regis opens both eyes now and turns his head to look at Geralt. 

The Witcher is painfully aware of how close they are. He swallows. “So, when are you leaving?”

“Daybreak.”

“Fine. Okay.” Geralt breathes in. “So, is now the time to talk about --” When Regis groans and leans his head back, Geralt narrows his eyes. “What?” 

“Talk, talk. All you want to do is talk, witcher, and I for one am tired of talking. I am so very tired, in fact. Of --” his voice catches. “Of everything.” A pained laugh escapes him, like he’s just remembered some sort of private little joke. “I am very tired and fuck it all.”

Geralt huffs. “Language, Count Regis.”

Regis laughs now, more sincere, with mirth this time. “Goodness me, indeed. If only Angoulȇme were here, she wouldn’t let me hear the end of it, would she.”

“You’d bet. _Oi, nuncle, how come you can say the bad words and I get a belt on me neck if I do_?”

Geralt’s impression of their dear late friend is bad enough that it makes them both laugh for a moment. However, Regis’ smile dies as quickly as it appeared and his eyes stare into the dying flame of the bonfire, once again unseeing. Geralt sobers up and suddenly he feels it too. Grief crashes into him like a wave, grief he never got to properly process, one that’s lingered just in the corners of their eyes and throats and hearts ever since they saw each other again. 

Without really thinking clearly, he reaches over and threads his fingers with Regis’. It’s such a familiar feeling, the soft skin of Regis’ hand. Geralt discovers that he can effortlessly remember every single line ridge of his delicate fingers. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I miss them too.” 

It’s this that somehow breaks the dam in Regis’ careful composure. He looks at Geralt, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight and, gods help him, he is still so beautiful that it makes Geralt’s breath catch in his throat. Geralt is just about to start saying something else, perhaps a word of comfort, perhaps a confession of love. He’s not exactly sure what it is and as Regis’ mouth crashes on to his, the witcher loses every coherent thought he’s ever had. 

The kiss is rough and open-mouthed and desperate and perfect. Geralt drops his cup and spills what little mandrake hooch is left in it. He twists his fingers in Regis’ shirt and pulls him closer, kissing him again, and again, and again. He wants to cry because he has _forgotten_ , not just the taste and feel and beautiful, beautiful weight of the vampire’s body against his, but also just how effortlessly they fit against each other, how they know what to do and where to put their hands and how this all feels like coming home. To kiss Regis again after all these years is like Geralt has been a parched man who has been thirsty for years and has only just found and remembered the taste of water. So Geralt drinks Regis in, and he savours every molecule of him.

His fingertips carefully, reverently trace the lines on Regis’ face. The vampire presses his forehead against Geralt’s and they just breathe together for a few beats. Geralt’s hands are still fisted in Regis’ shirt. He puts his palm on the vampire’s chest and feels the slow, familiar beat of his impossible, beautiful heart. 

“Regis …”

“I have never stopped loving you.” The confession tumbles out of Regis as easily as Geralt’s own heart tumbles right into his feet. “You were, still are, and always will be, the only one for me. After all these years, even though I knew you had moved on, you had found your Yennefer and your Cirilla and I was but a distant, half-complete memory - I simply could not stop loving you, no matter how hard I tried. And tried I did.” He chuckles breathlessly. “And then you had to come here, to Toussaint, and remind me of everything I was running away from. Geralt --”

“Quiet. Be quiet, Regis.”

“I can’t stay, Geralt. I can’t stay here.”

Geralt knows that. He doesn’t say that he knows that. “Let me kiss you,” is what the Witcher says instead, so Regis lets him and then kisses him back with just as much fervour. Geralt twists himself so he can crowd up against the vampire, wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing his body closer, closer, closer. He can feel the utterly feral heat emanating from Regis’ skin and that thrum of _want_ and _need_ and _desire_ and something else altogether coils deep in his belly. 

The last embers of the fire crackle as Geralt gently straddles Regis and cups his face, tilting his head. He means to kiss him but he’s enchanted by the depth of his obsidian eyes once again so he plants a kiss on the small ridge of his nose instead. Clearly overwhelmed by the impossible tenderness of the moment, Regis lets out a long, shaky sigh. 

“Gods, Geralt. Whatever shall we do?” 

Geralt doesn’t have the answer so his hands go to untie Regis’ shirt instead. Questions can wait until it’s daylight and they’re not trapped in the velvety embrace of this warm evening, where all that exists is the heat of their bodies and the little breathy exhale that Regis makes every time Geralt kisses him on _that_ particular spot behind his ear. Smugly, Geralt thinks that he has done well to remember all the sensitive spots on Regis’ body. He makes full use of that knowledge.

Regis melts under his touch and Geralt curses himself. Never before has the Witcher felt this clear sense of belonging and it took him until now, until this final minute before midnight of the last day, to finally lean into it, to remember what home feels and sounds and smells like. He holds Regis closer and kisses him again, and again, and again.

They don’t speak because they don’t need to. Words feel inferior to the sensuality of their bodies remembering each other. Even Regis, the man who must always have the last word, stays completely, perfectly silent. To be fair, his mouth _is_ otherwise engaged. 

***

_“Have you been everywhere on the continent?”_

_“Hmmm?”_

_“Man like you, having lived for nearly five centuries. You’ve had the time to get around quite a lot. Is there anywhere you haven’t been?”_

_“Funny you should ask. I’ve never been to Vicovaro. Opportunity has never presented itself; and really, Geralt, I am much more of a homebody than you might think.”_

_“When this is all over and we have Ciri back, I’m taking you to Vicovaro.”_

_“Oh? What’s in Vicovaro?”_

_“Nothing. Well, there’s a lot of herbalists and alchemists who I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time visiting. But no, I just want to take you somewhere you’ve never been. Show you something new. After all these years, that can’t happen very often. You must be very bored.”_

_“My dear witcher, I hope you know that every day spent in your company is a new, exciting adventure all on its own.”_

_“... I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

***

 **Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery  
** **Caroberta Woods  
** **The morning after**

Geralt wakes up at dusk. He is alone but a black cloak is gently draped over him to protect his naked skin from the early morning chill. The fire is long dead and the dew glistens on the blades of grass like pearls. 

Geralt rubs his face against the cloak. It’s soft and heavy and completely _soaked_ with Regis’ smell. He wonders if it’s the same one that Regis had when they left Fen Carn, the one he used to wrap himself so tightly with, enough to almost melt into the darkness of the night. Or maybe he was just cold. His hands are always cold, Geralt thinks absentmindedly, and wonders how he’s never noticed before now.

Stretching slowly, the Witcher gets up and finds his trousers and shirt. He drapes the cloak over his arm and heads to the crypt.

Outside, Regis has already packed most of his belongings in the saddlebags on a mule. The animal is taking the weight of the books admirably. The vampire’s hands are fiddling with the straps, tightening then loosening them, checking the saddle, moving things with no obvious rhyme or reason. He’s _stalling_ , Geralt realises. 

The moth-shaped brooch is safely pinned on Regis’ collar. 

Geralt clears his throat, even though he’s almost completely certain that Regis has heard him coming. The vampire turns and attempts what must be a smile. He looks incredibly, bone-deep sad. 

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Did so,” Geralt’s hand fiddles with the cloak. “Did you?”

“Better than I have in years.”

The silence between them buzzes in an awkward, uncomfortable frequency. Geralt’s hands and heart feel incredibly heavy.

“Got everything?”

“Almost everything. I will send for some things later on. Mainly books.” He strokes the mule’s head. “Wouldn’t want to overwhelm Drakuul, here. Besides, I travel light, as you well know.” 

The morning sunlight seeps through the leaves of the trees and catches in Regis’ hair. In this light, he looks almost angelic, if that’s at all possible. His onyx eyes glimmer and still somehow look gentle and soft. 

Geralt loves him endlessly, completely, deeply. 

It’s not exactly a realisation. He has never really stopped loving Regis. Not for a second. 

_If you love him, you must let him go._

The voice of his conscience sounds _very_ suspiciously like Yennefer. Before he can ponder why that is, another thought overwhelms the previous one, so fast it nearly gives him whiplash.

_If you love him, you will hold on to him this time._

This voice. This voice sounds much better - it sounds much more like Geralt’s own. It also sounds slightly, as much as he hates to admit it, like Dettlaff’s. 

Regis puts his hand out and Geralt realises that he’s still holding the travel cloak. “Thank you for bringing this. I’ll need it.” 

Geralt reaches too but instead of giving Regis his cloak he places a gentle hand on his forearm, stepping closer. Regis’ eyes widen, he looks at the touch and tenses up _even_ more. 

“Regis.” Even his name feels so beautiful, so familiar in Geralt’s mouth - like particularly fine wine that you hold behind your teeth for a good long while before swallowing. Geralt wants to have reason to say it every day, followed by _I_ and _love_ and _you_. “Regis.”

“Geralt,” Regis replies, watching him carefully. One of his hands has gone to cover Geralt’s. 

Whatever witcher mutations he’s been pumped with that are _supposed_ to suppress his emotions, Geralt thinks they must have seriously gone to absolute shit. He has never felt so _much_ and so _deeply_ in perhaps his whole life.

“Don’t go. Stay.” A pause. A breath. “Stay with me.”

It escapes his mouth before he can stop it and gods help him, he doesn’t _want_ to stop it. 

Regis makes a pained face. He catches Geralt’s hand in both of his. “Geralt, you know I cannot stay. You know that I am --” 

“You are anathema. I know.” The word burns Geralt’s throat uncomfortably. _My fault. It’s my fault_ . He moves closer to Regis and drops the cloak on the ground, overwhelmed with the need just to _hold_ the vampire, cling on to him like a child so he would never leave. “I know. But Regis, I already lost you once. I didn’t choose that, back at Stygga castle, I didn’t -- I couldn’t control it. But now if I -- if I _let you go_ , of my own volition, I’ll never forgive myself. So. I’d be stupid not to say it. Please don’t go. I don't care if all the vampires in Toussaint descend upon me at night. I'll protect you, until my dying breath. Just stay. ”

Geralt breathes heavily. Regis watches him as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “I --” he starts to say weakly but seems to have, for once, lost all of his words. “Geralt, I --”

“Stay with me in Corvo Bianco. There’s nothing I want more in this godsforsaken world than to come home and see you sitting at the fireplace every day. I want to sit at the table with you every evening. I want to watch the stars with you and drink your accursed mandrake hooch. I want to go to bed with you, every night. I want to kiss you and I want to hold your hands in mine until they’re warm. I want to make love to you every single night.” Geralt suddenly realises he’s somehow forgotten to breathe so he takes a shuddering, unsteady breath. “I want to take you to _fucking_ Vicovaro.” Regis huffs a laugh at that, his eyes gleaming. “Regis, I -- I want everything I did before, everything we said we were going to have -- I _love_ you,” he finishes on a desperate sounding note because damn does he need Regis to just _understand_ and he doesn’t know what else to say, he doesn’t know how to properly communicate the devotion he feels for this vampire and his impossible, gentle soul _._

For a long, long moment that seems to stretch across all of eternity, Regis is quiet. He just watches Geralt carefully. It seems to take so long that, for a second, Geralt is terrified that Regis will leave anyway. 

But then, something softens in the lines of Regis’ face and he cups Geralt’s cheek with his hand. 

“My dear witcher,” he says, impossibly fond. “All morning I have been struggling with the thought of letting you go. And now here you come, making it even more difficult.”

“You don’t need to go. Please stay.”

“You won’t be safe with me around, Geralt.”

Geralt huffs. “Please, Regis. I’m a witcher. You gotta do better than that.”

“And --” Regis is clearly picking his words carefully. “I have changed. Nearly seven years have passed since -- much has changed. What if you discover one morning, that, well, you don’t actually like this _new_ Regis.”

Geralt exhales. He would never say this out loud out of fear of sounding glib, but gods, what a beautifully _simple_ fear that is. How utterly small and ordinary and _human_ of Regis to be scared of something like this.

He turns his head and places a careful kiss just by the pulse point in Regis’ wrist. “That’s not something that you ever need to worry about. I love all that you have been, and all that you are, and all that you will be. Regis -- you know I’m not good at this.”

“You say that you are not, and yet here you have, your heart wrenched open for my sake.” Regis smiles as his thumb gently traces the scar over Geralt’s brow. “You are a wonder, you always have been.” He exhales softly, carefully. “Gods, all this time we have lost.”

“We’ll make up for it. Every second.” Geralt presses his forehead against Regis’, breathing in his earthy scent. “Just stay.” 

For a while, they stay like this. The sunlight streams through the rustling leaves of the forest as a crow croons in the distance but everything else is so blissfully quiet that, for a moment, it feels like there’s no one else in the world but them - that they are the bright, shining, pulsing centre of _everything._

Almost imperceptibly, with his eyes closed and his hands ever so gentle on the sides of Geralt’s face, Regis nods. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gesture; to Geralt, it is everything in the world.

The wind whispers around them. It sounds like a calling, a quiet yearning that is so much more than can ever be said. Geralt carefully lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

***

 **Corvo Bianco  
** **Six months later**

“... And _then_ , believe it or not, that bastard Corticelli tried to swindle me, said he would only pay 140 crowns less the price we’d agreed and not a sliver more.” Geralt towels off his hair as he steps out, barefoot on the vineyard veranda. “Can you imagine? It’s not like he’s not got the money. Old prick’s swimming in it. And if it hadn’t been for me, that cockatrice would have sliced him clean through the kidney. Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course, my dear,” Regis hums, turning the page in his book and clearly not listening in the slightest. “Come on now, your food is getting cold. You must be starving.”

Geralt moves to sit on the other corner of the chaise lounge. He gently lifts Regis’ bare feet and puts them in his own lap, giving the vampire’s ankle a light, playful squeeze. Regis - for a lack of a better word - _purrs_ in contentment. 

“It’s very good to have you home.”

“Likewise.” With his free hand, Geralt reaches for the chicken sandwich on the small table next to the chaise. “How has your day been? Did I miss anything exciting?” 

“The bees seem to be settling in okay. We seem to have some kind of a pest that has attacked the fool’s parsley plant in the herb garden - I’ll try and gather some samples and see if I can come up with some decoction to keep it well away. I have ordered the timber for the refurbishment of the spare bedroom and that should be here within two days’ time. I have --” he pauses, looking up from his book at the Witcher with a smile. “Ah, forgive me. Have lost myself in tales of the ever so mundane once again.”

Geralt squeezes the vampire’s ankle again and smiles, bright and easy. “No, it’s okay. I love hearing about it.” 

They sit in comfortable silence after this, as Geralt eats his sandwich and enjoys the sounds of the chirping crickets and the soft rustle of paper. Regis reads his book and takes the occasional sip of wine, sometimes gently nudging against Geralt’s stomach with his big toe. There is a cold breeze in the air - it will be autumn soon, after all - but it’s pleasant and refreshing. Geralt’s thumb absentmindedly strokes small circles into the soft skin around Regis’ ankle. 

When Geralt is finished with his food, Regis looks up, smiles and carefully marks his place in his book. Then, in the blink of an eye, he shifts. One moment Geralt is looking at the vast expanse of the vineyard, with the moonlight bouncing off the roof tiles of the stables. Next thing he knows, he finds himself with a lap full of Regis. 

The Witcher smiles, winding his hands around the vampire’s waist. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Regis’ long, delicate fingers comb through his hair. There’s a playful glint in his eye and he looks so _content,_ it’s making Geralt positively giddy. “Mm, you smell much nicer after your bath.”

Geralt tsks in pretend admonishment. “If you really loved me, you’d want to kiss me even if I was covered in cockatrice guts.”

“Don’t fool yourself, beloved. Of course I would kiss you any chance I get, no matter what stinking nonsense you are covered in.” As if to accentuate his point, Regis presses his lips to Geralt’s chastely, a soft, fleeting touch. “But you have to admit, this is much more pleasant for everyone involved.”

Geralt chases after him and catches his lips in another kiss, and another, and another. For a while, that’s all they do. Geralt lets his hands wander, slip under Regis’ loose shirt and feel the smooth skin and sinewy muscle underneath. 

“Perhaps we should take this inside,” Regis suggests as he presses kisses against Geralt’s jawline. “I would so not want to have to make a show for the servants’ quarters.”

“In a bit. Got something for you first.”

Regis pulls back to look at Geralt, his eyes wide and dark and ever so alluring. “For me?”

“Mmmhm.” With a bit of effort, Geralt manages to reach into the pocket of his trousers. Regis tries to move away from his lap but the Witcher holds him down. “Didn’t tell you to move,” he grumbles. “I’m comfortable like this. Just need a second. Here.” He produces a closed fist from his pocket. “Close your eyes.”

With a shake of his head and a chuckle, Regis obliges.

“Now, spread out the fingers of your right hand.”

Ever so careful, as if handling the world’s most precious thing in the world, Geralt adorns Regis with his present and presses a kiss to his knuckles. It’s clear, from the gentle “oh” that’s left the vampire’s lips that he’s figured out what the present is but his eyes are still firmly shut.

“Okay. You can look now.”

Regis holds out his hand, a look of pure astonishment on his face. It’s not easy to surprise an ancient being who has seen more or less anything there is to see in the world. Quietly, Geralt is quite proud of how often he manages. 

“Oh, _Geralt._ It’s beautiful.”

“It’s onyx,” the Witcher clarifies, mesmerised by the way the black ring contrasts with the moonlit paleness of Regis’ hand. “I -- well. I saw it and it made me think of you. Of the colour of your eyes. And, well. I just had to get it. I had to because -- well, I want you to have something to look at and think of me. When I'm away."

“I love it,” Regis says reverently, turning his hand so the simple black band catches the light of the waxing moon. "But my dear Geralt. I don't need this to think of you. You already occupy my every thought, every day." He takes a deep breath. "And I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me."

The side of his face is bathed in starlight and for a dizzying moment, Geralt thinks that this is exactly what Regis looked like when they’d kissed for the first time, all those years ago, with only the moon and the forest and the open sky as their witness. The vampire’s eyes are still deep enough to hold the universe within them, yet, at this very moment, he seems to only see Geralt and nothing else. 

He pulls Regis in and kisses him now, feeling giddy at the thought that he can just _do that_. “I love you,” Geralt tells him, feeling the hot breath against his lips . “And I would give you the whole world, if you only asked.”

Regis smiles and it’s so wide and bright and happy it makes those happy crinkles around his eyes appear that Geralt loves ever so much. “I love you too. Why would I need anything else when I’ve got you right here?” He rubs his nose against Geralt’s. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

They get up and walk in, arms wrapped around each other. A crow gently croons them goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Title is from The Amazing Devil's song 'Marbles'. I had many thoughts about these boys and had to write them all together


End file.
